Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
“I have the receipt from the title company,” Emily said, moving toward a folder on the kitchen counter. “The price was eighty-eight thousand dollars.”
I froze. “Eighty-eight thousand?”
“Yes,” Emily said, handing me a blue-backed folder. “I paid sixty-four thousand in cash from my mother’s estate, and the rest is on a short-term note.”
I thanked her, took the address of the records office, and walked back down the steps without looking at my father.
The Escambia County Records Office was located in a gray concrete building three blocks from the bay.
The air inside smelled of ammonia and old paper.
A middle-aged clerk with wire-rimmed glasses sat behind a high counter, her fingers tapping against a keyboard as she pulled up the registry.
“Here it is,” the clerk said, turning the flat monitor toward me. “The transfer was recorded on the twelfth of last month.”
I leaned close to the screen, my eyes scanning the digital scan of the deed.
“Who is listed as the buyer?” I asked.
